


I probably still adore you (with your hands around my neck)

by socknonny



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Choking, Enemies to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kinky, Light Dom/sub, M/M, POV Alternating, Praise Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Trust, Trust Issues, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 08:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17763704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socknonny/pseuds/socknonny
Summary: Billy has a new kink, and he won't rest until he has Steve's hands around his neck.Steve isn't interested in bullshit relationships; he wants something real.They both get what they want.





	I probably still adore you (with your hands around my neck)

**Author's Note:**

> Please read and mind the tags!!!!
> 
> I wrote this for the Harringrove Week of Luuuurve, but I wasn't sure about adding it to the collection since I don't have a Harringrove tumblr to participate in the tag or anything.... but it was inspired by the Erotic Dreams prompt for the 13th (which it is for me today) so I've added it to the collection and if it needs to be removed someone please let me know!

Billy wakes with the memory of Steve Harrington’s hands still imprinted on his neck. For a moment, he thinks he’s woken from a nightmare. Too often, his dad’s lessons have been reinforced with anger—nothing too damaging, but enough to leave Billy wary of anyone who is stronger than he is. But Billy doesn’t feel the way he does when his dad is driving home one of the house rules, he doesn’t feel sick with fear or anger. Instead, his heart is racing, his chest warm where it meets the sweat-soaked fabric of his bedsheets. He’s hard as a rock, dripping, aching for someone’s hand to cup him and bring him off with agonizing tenderness.

His breath hitches in his throat as he slides his palm down his stomach, teasing the soft line of hair below the waistband of his boxers before gripping his cock and stroking. There’s a noise building at the back of his throat; if it escaped, it would make him sound weak as shit, so he doesn’t let it. He brings his right hand to his throat, grips his neck between his thumb and forefinger, and squeezes.

The dream comes flooding back. He’s on his knees in the locker room at Hawkins High, even though he graduated months ago and hated that fucking place. Steve is standing over Billy, head thrown back against the metal lockers behind him. You aren’t meant to be able to smell in dreams, but Billy has spent too many nights fantasizing about getting locked in here with Steve to not be drowning in the scent of sweat and sports leather. Steve moans as Billy’s lips wrap around him, and then Billy is choking on Steve’s dick—blissfully, gratefully. Every sense is overwhelmed, but then Steve’s hand drops to Billy’s throat, choking him for real this time, and Billy is on fire. 

He sinks back into his pillow, both hands squeezing tight on his dick and his neck, and bites back a moan. It shouldn’t turn him on. Choking should make him think of fights he can never win and violence and the loss of the only meaning the word ‘family’ ever held. But it doesn’t.

His thumb cuts into his windpipe, and suddenly he’s gasping and spilling over beneath the sheets. The memory—the dream—of Steve coming down his throat is burned into his brain, and it isn’t enough that he’s stumbled on some new, fucked up way to get off because it isn’t the same now he’s awake. His own hand isn’t enough. He needs Steve.

But that will never happen, even if Billy gets on his knees and begs—tempting though that image may be. There’s only one way Steve would ever lay his hands on Billy, and even Billy isn’t twisted enough to get off on that. 

The fucker would probably finish the job this time. Billy wouldn’t even blame him.

*

Steve can hear the pounding music from halfway down the street, and in the privacy of his car he rolls his eyes and swears out loud. He has no interest in this party, but he promised Heather, and his neglected dick tells him he’s meant to care about making pretty girls happy. So here he is, trying to care. 

The thing is, he cares more these days about talking to people—really, actually talking—than about the mindless social rituals of impressing them. He’d never realized how much of his conversations with girls were entirely fake—bullshit—and now he’s learned to read the signs, he can’t take it anymore. Steve wants people to trust him with something real. He wants the sort of connection he sees between Nancy and Jonathan.

Imagining Heather smiling and laughing and blowing him without meaning a goddamn word of it makes him so sick he nearly turns the car around and leaves. But he promised, and so here he is. 

He pulls onto the curb and parks beneath a tree. It makes him a little uncomfortable, thinking about what could come out of the shadows, but he feels safer than if he’s out in the open. His choice is validated when he opens the door and spies Billy Hargrove sweet-talking a girl out the front and realizes Billy hasn’t even noticed him yet. 

It’s rare for Billy not to see Steve first. 

They aren’t exactly friends, but they haven’t fought in months, and Steve doesn’t know what to make of that. Doesn’t know what to make of the way his heart pounds when Billy calls his name across the room, or the spark of electricity that ignites in Billy’s eyes when Steve stops pretending to ignore him. 

As if he could ever ignore Billy Hargrove.

The second Billy sees him, it’s as if the girl has already been forgotten. He ignores her, breaking away while she’s still mid-sentence, and stalks over to Steve.

“Hargrove,” Steve says, coming to a halt just before the side gate. 

The girl Billy was talking to has already left; they’re alone.

Billy grins. “Harrington. What are you doing here? Thought this scene was beneath you these days.” He’s drunk as hell, the scent of alcohol pouring off his breath.

“Who says it isn’t?” 

Despite how frustrating Billy is, something in Steve can’t help rising to the challenge. They square off, shadows stretching between them. Billy’s clearly itching for a fight, but something about him seems off. His eyes keep darting to Steve’s hands, and despite the shit-eating grin, he looks almost… nervous.

“Aaah,” Billy says, the infuriatingly smug smile firmly in place. “So that’s what this is. How long  _ has _ it been since you got your dick wet, Harrington?”

Fuck’s sake. He’s not in the mood for this shit.

Steve firms his stance, hands on his hips, and stares into the distance like he just doesn’t care. Which he doesn’t. “Why? Are you offering?”

Something strange crosses Billy’s face, and suddenly there is a hand at Steve’s throat and Billy is crowding him back against a tree. A distant part of him registers that even the grip against his neck is strange, too gentle, like Billy isn’t actually trying to hurt him. But his adrenaline is rising too fast for him to examine the thought properly, and instead of questioning it, he takes advantage of the shitty hold, breaks free, and shoves Billy against the tree instead.

A flash of triumph crosses Billy’s face, and then it’s gone. Steve mirrors the stance Billy held him in, fingers clenched around Billy’s neck, and squeezes. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“What makes you think I got a problem?” Billy is still grinning, his eyes heavy-lidded as he falls limp in Steve’s hold. 

It’s almost… it’s almost like… 

Steve’s eyes fall, and Billy’s jeans are so tight it isn’t hard to see what’s happening. Isn’t hard to see the bulge at the front. He breaks free and backs up several steps.

When he finally drags his eyes back up to Billy’s face, Billy no longer looks drunk. Steve wonders if he ever was, or if it was just an excuse. 

Billy wets his lips, more serious than Steve has ever seen him. “I’ll suck your dick.” 

Several blond curls have escaped their perfect styling, roughed up by the hand at his neck, and are now caught in messy strands across his face. He’s breathing hard, the rise and fall of his chest visible in the open vee of his black shirt. Maybe he isn’t drunk, but Billy has been a mess since Steve walked in, and he’s only just noticed.

“ _ What? _ ” 

“You heard me.”

Steve’s breath is loud in the silence of the night, and for the first time since he arrived he barely notices the music.

“Why?” His nose wrinkles at the thought, not because he doesn’t want it—his dick is already hard at the thought—but because he can’t understand why the hell Billy is offering.

Billy makes a disgusted noise at the back of his throat and looks away. “Jesus Christ, Harrington, stop asking questions. Yes or no?”

“Y-yes?” 

He must look like an idiot right now. His face is still twisted into confusion and incredulity, and he’s half expecting Tommy or Carol to leap out from behind a car and yell “surprise!”. Except this wouldn’t damage Steve’s reputation, would it? Because he isn’t the one who’s  _ just fallen to his knees and what the hell is happening? _

Billy’s hands are rough at his jeans, tearing the buttons apart and shoving them out of the way before taking Steve’s rapidly hardening cock in his left hand and pumping it. Their breathing is the loudest thing in this quiet part of the garden, and there’s no one else in sight, but still Steve is so on edge he barely even notices when Billy’s mouth descends on him. 

Then, Billy’s free hand grips Steve’s wrist and guides it to his own throat, and Steve snaps out of his daze. 

He stumbles back, his dick sliding free from Billy’s mouth with a pop. “What the hell?” he hisses. 

“Don’t be such a bitch about it, for fuck’s sake.” 

Billy’s eyes flash with anger, and Steve is so hard it’s painful, but something about this is wrong. Something is off. There’s a desperation in Billy’s eyes that is killing the buzz in Steve’s head, and even though he knows it’s  _ Billy  _ and he shouldn’t care, he does. If a chick were looking at him like this, on their knees and begging him to choke them, there’s no way he’d follow through. So he doesn’t with Billy either. 

“Not like this,” he says, shoving himself back into his jeans before he can change his mind and buttoning back up. “Just… just hang on. This is—” He breaks off and runs a hand through his hair, heart racing in his chest.

“Fuck you,” Billy spits, and before Steve can figure out what’s going on or how to phrase the questions burning in his mind, he’s gone.

*

Even on his knees and begging for Steve’s cock down his throat, Steve doesn’t want him. What the fuck is wrong with him?

*

Steve gets the idea from Dustin, which is honestly more embarrassing than if he’d gotten it from his mom. But Dustin is rabbiting on so much about the library and how it’s a  _ wealth of knowledge _ and you can  _ find anything in there _ that before he knows it he’s voluntarily stepping foot inside Hawkins Library for the first time in his life, in search of a book that will tell him how to safely choke Billy Hargrove.

The doors creak as he pushes through them, and he’s immediately assaulted by the faint scent of dust and leather. The librarian looks up at him, lips pursed, but says nothing. She probably thinks he’s some jock meeting up with his girlfriend so they can neck amongst the stacks. He wonders if that’s any worse than what he’s really here for.

It’s been a week and he can’t get the memory out of his head—Billy falling limp beneath his hands, face slack with relief. Like he’d been wanting Steve to do it. Like he’d been dreaming of it. But Steve also can’t forget how Billy’s eyes slid away from his own, no matter how desperately Billy had grabbed at him. There was shame there.

Steve has slept with a couple of kinky girls before. They aren’t as hard to find as you’d think in Hawkins, and he knows the secret to dirty sex that most people don’t: it’s meant to make you feel better, not worse. He doesn’t need to be a fortune-teller to know the way Billy had been grabbing at him, jerky and desperate but resigned, was going to end in self loathing.

He walks aimlessly down the shelves, wondering how the hell he’s meant to find anything in here. There’s a system, he knows that. Is it the numbers? That's not very helpful. He leans closer to the books and studies their titles. They all seem to be about different countries, which isn’t particularly helpful. Unless he wants to go on a round-the-world trip of sexual deviancy, he supposes.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and he turns to see the librarian trying to move past with a trolley of books. 

“Oh, sorry.” He steps back, out of the way, but she doesn’t move.

“Can I help you find something?” 

She seems curious rather than annoyed. Maybe he’s passed some invisible test by not talking loudly in the first two minutes.

“Umm.” His eyes slide back to the books. He can’t ask for what he needs, but he really is screwed if he has to find it on his own. There must be thousands of books in here. “Health?” he guesses it’s as close as he can get.

She nods and beckons him to follow her. They weave through two aisles before coming to a slightly less dusty section of the library. “Is it for a project?” 

Steve shakes his head, heat rising in his chest and face. 

Her eyes flick to his cheeks and she clears her throat. “What sort of health?” 

“Umm.”

“Six hundred and ten covers the entire span of health, but if you’re looking for—” she pauses, “—personal health, you might find six hundred and thirteen enlightening.” She gestures to a particular shelf and then turns away.

At the last second she stops, tilting her head slightly to speak over her shoulder. “Sometimes books get caught behind the shelves, too.”

Then, she leaves.

He stares after her for several seconds, wondering what the hell he’s about to find on the shelf she pointed to, but eventually decides there’s no choice but to just go for it. He leans forward and scans the titles.

The heat in his cheeks flames even stronger. A lot of the books that have six hundred and thirteen on them—with a ton of numbers after the dot for some reason—are self help books, but he doesn’t think that’s why she pointed him here. The least dusty books are all to do with sex.

Jesus, she must think he’s trying to diagnose a weird rash or something. Or prevent him from getting any weird rashes in the future, because most of these books seem to be about understanding sex and making sure you do it safely. He remembers what she said about books getting caught behind the shelf and slides his fingers along the back. It’s mostly empty, but then his hand lands on a thin paperback.

When he draws it out, it’s one of the most well-thumbed books he’s seen in the library. Most of the pages have been dog-eared at some point in their lives, and the cover is cracked and worn.

_ A lifetime of sex: the ultimate manual on sex, women, and relationships _

“Jesus fucking christ,” he mutters and then tucks the book under his arm and walks over to the darkest corner of the library.

A long time later, Steve feels so well-versed in the practice of safe sex, he's beginning to wonder how he ever thought he knew what he was doing before. He should send Dustin a thank you card. 

Or… not. 

He sticks the book back where he found it, where he suspects it lives so that the conservative mom-groups don't get it banned, and slips out the door without making eye contact with the librarian.

The warm, summer breeze hits him as he steps outside, ruffling his hair. There are several children riding past on their bikes, balancing ice creams with one hand. It's all so utterly incongruous to where Steve's thoughts have been for the afternoon that he feels almost dazed. 

But still determined. The book was… detailed. He knows all about things he'll probably never need, like safe words and how to check for a latex allergy; but, more importantly, he knows what Billy wants is actually very normal, even if Billy feels otherwise. Steve will simply have to change his mind. 

Now, all he needs is an opportunity.

*

Billy wakes as he always does now, gasping for breath while the hint of imaginary fingers hold him down. Aching. Hard.

What the fuck is wrong with him? For nearly a week after he tried to suck Steve’s dick, he hid himself inside the house, smoking and lifting weights and trying to pretend he wasn’t falling apart. All he could think of was how Steve’s hand had felt pressed against his windpipe, how Steve’s dick had tasted, and it isn’t enough that he feels fucked up for wanting Steve at all because now he apparently gets off on pain?

At least it doesn’t seem to be all kinds of pain that get him off. His dad had cornered him after he’d come home drunk, slammed him against the wall, held him in place while he laid down the rules of living under his roof. Billy’s throat ached, and he’d been filled with misery and anger and the undeniable, paralysing futility of it all. 

So it isn’t all pain. It’s just Steve. Maybe he wants Steve to punish him. Maybe he secretly believes he deserves it. Maybe he  _ does  _ deserve it.

Why else would he want this?

Billy escapes from the house before his dad can find the empty bottle of whiskey in the trash. He can’t keep running from this. For whatever screwed up reason, he needs Steve to touch him, guide him, control him.

And he saw the look in Steve’s eyes that night; he knows Steve wants it too.

*

There’s a knock on his front door. Steve is only half-dressed from the shower, jeans slung low on his hips and a towel around his neck. He figures it’s Dustin bugging him to hang out, even though he already said he had plans. 

He doesn’t have plans, and he resigns himself to spending Friday night with a bunch of thirteen year olds.

“What part of ‘I have plans’ don’t you little shits understand?” he says as he opens the door.

It isn’t Dustin.

Billy Hargrove stands on his doorstep, eyes roaming Steve’s bare chest as he leans in the frame and says nothing.

“Can I help you?” Steve crosses his arms, feeling oddly exposed considering Billy has had Steve’s dick in his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Billy says, finally lifting his gaze so their eyes are locked together. “Can you?”

“You’re a big boy, Hargrove. Use your words.” Despite his cool tone, Steve’s heart is racing. He knows what Billy is here for, knows that Billy  _ knows  _ he does, and every word they say that doesn’t acknowledge that is only prolonging the inevitable. 

Billy unfolds from the wall and steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “This is a big place you’ve got here.” He lifts his eyes to the stairs, an unreadable emotion sparking in them. “A big, empty place…” he trails off, his tone a question.

“Very empty,” Steve agrees.

Billy’s smile is wolfish. “Why don’t you take me to your room, then?”

It’s the strangest hookup Steve has ever had. Neither of them speak as he leads the way up the stairs, viscerally aware of Billy trailing behind. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Billy studying the photos that line the wall, flicking the frames out of alignment with careless fingers.

They reach Steve’s bedroom, and he doesn’t even have time to wonder how the hell they’re going to get from this weird cease-fire to whatever the hell is about to happen, because Billy is already on him. He pushes into Steve’s space, that same desperate fire in his eyes, and Steve can’t hide how much he wants this. He rests his hand on Billy’s chest, prepared to shove him and hold him down if he needs to, but when Billy just  _ stops  _ it’s all Steve can do not to sink to his knees right then.

But that isn’t what Billy wants.

“Billy,” Steve says, rough and more breathless than he’d like. “Wait. Tell me what you want.”

The bed is behind him, and it would only take a tiny push to have Billy spread out and waiting. Neither of them are moving, Steve because this feels too momentous to risk fucking up, and Billy because he’s waiting for Steve to take charge. The weight of responsibility is almost too much.

“You know what I want, Harrington, don’t fuck around.” 

Billy tilts his head back, just enough that his throat is bared, catching the light of the bedside lamp. The hollow of his neck dips in shadow, and Steve moves as if in a trance as he lifts his hand and rests his thumb gently in it. When Billy swallows, his skin presses into Steve’s thumb, and he swears he can feel the vibration of Billy moaning even though the sound doesn’t escape his lips.

“This isn’t wrong, you know,” Steve says, eyes locked on the sight of his hand around Billy’s throat, just resting there, not yet squeezing. “Lots of people do this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t need you to talk me into it, just fucking choke me already.” 

With that, Billy grabs hold of Steve’s hand and clenches it so his fingers cut into Billy’s neck. He gasps, his eyes fluttering closed while his knees buckle and he nearly falls backward. Steve’s dick twitches, heat coursing through him, but he pulls his hand back, horrified.

“What the fuck, man?”

Billy’s eyes snap open and his fists clench. “Are we doing this or what?”

“It’s not meant to cut off your air supply, you fucking idiot!”

“It’s— What?” For the first time, Billy stutters to a halt. The desperate energy fueling him fades and he looks confused.

Steve lifts his hand and cups Billy’s throat, running his thumb across his jawline and feeling the shivers his touch elicits. “It’s meant to cut off blood flow,” he says quietly, squeezing the sides of Billy’s neck but leaving his windpipe untouched. “Not breathing.” He keeps the pressure steady, squeezing tighter and tighter until there’s a flush of heat rising in Billy’s cheeks.

This time, Billy’s eyes roll back in his head and he lets out a moan. Steve can feel it in his palm, in his own throat as he echoes it, in his fucking cock as he grows impossibly hard. 

“Get on your knees,” he whispers.

Billy falls.

With his free hand, Steve undoes his jeans and takes out his dick, resting it against Billy’s lips. It’s only there for a second before Billy’s mouth is opening, soft lips sliding along Steve’s cock, wet and eager. He takes him down so quickly, there isn’t any doubt he’s done this before, but Steve is still unsure. Billy’s movements are rough, sloppy; it feels amazing, but it’s all wrong. 

Steve pulls back and shucks his jeans. Billy’s eyes follow him, silent and watchful, and it occurs to Steve that he is entirely naked while Billy is clothed. That doesn’t seem right. He steps in again and pulls Billy to his feet, undoing the final buttons of his shirt and shoving it off his shoulders.

Billy looks confused, but he gets the idea fast, and soon they’re both naked and falling back on the bed. Before Billy can protest—which Steve can tell is only seconds away—he grasps him by the neck again, and in the gasp of breath that follows, kisses him. 

He is soft, sweet, pliant beneath Steve’s touch. His mouth moves against Steve’s as eagerly as it had along his dick, and for a moment Steve can’t believe this aggressively macho lady-killer is so willing to be led around by a man. Then, he forgets to care and guides Billy until he’s on his knees, facing the wall at the head of Steve’s bed.

Sliding his hands along Billy’s wrists and palms, he lifts them until they’re pressed against the wall. Instantly, Billy’s head falls back, baring his throat again. His chest is heaving with rough breaths that Steve can both see and hear, and when Steve’s hand returns to his throat he swallows thickly.

“You’ve been holding back on me,” Billy murmurs, voice low and rasping.

“Don’t know what you mean.” 

Steve can hear the quiver in his own voice, and he masks it by trailing the fingers of his left hand down Billy’s back. He pulls away for a second to grab the lube from his bedside drawer and slicken his fingers, and then quickly falls back into place. Billy’s head tips further back.

“You know what you’re doing,” Billy continues, hands clenching against the wall as his eyes fall closed. “You acted like some scared little virgin the other day, but you’ve done this before. You get off on it too.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m fucking sure.”

“Then why do you still think it’s something to be ashamed of?” 

Steve’s voice dips lower at the same time his fingers slide inside. At first, Billy flinches, pulling away, but Steve tightens his grip around Billy’s throat and holds him in place. The ragged gasps fall quicker from Billy’s lips, his body immediately going pliant.

“I’m not—” Billy gasps, “—fucking ashamed.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Steve says, distantly horrified at the way his voice is turning into a purr. He isn’t even fucking Billy yet; how is he already so far gone? “It feels good doesn’t it?” 

He slides another finger inside, and Billy answer ‘yes’ turns into a moan. Steve fumbles for the lube and slicks up his cock, lining it up and pressing slowly forward.

“Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, “You take that so well.”

When Billy melts into his hand at those words, Steve almost falls off the bed. His mind races to play back the last few seconds, trying to work out what it is that made Billy submit so beautifully. All he did was say Billy took it well. Surely someone with an ego like Billy Hargrove’s doesn’t go soft for compliments?

He inches forward, burying himself further inside and gripping Billy’s neck until a pretty flush is rising beneath his fingertips. Billy pants beneath him, his grip on the wall slack and his eyes blissfully closed.

Experimentally, Steve tries again, “You’re doing so well.”

Billy’s mouth falls open, lips plump and red as he exhales a gentle moan. 

Fuck.

“That’s it.” His words stumble over each other as his brain tries to catch up to his mouth. “So good. Fuck, so good.” 

His right hand squeezes and his left hand strokes Billy’s dick and it hits him, it fucking hits him, it isn’t the compliment—it’s the praise. 

Everything floods in at once, and he understands why Billy wants this, why he  _ needs  _ this, and God, it’s so heady Steve nearly spills over at the thought. Billy trusts him. Or, if he doesn’t quite yet, he  _ wants  _ to trust him. To trust that Steve won’t push him beyond his limits, won’t use him without appreciating what Billy is giving, won’t be just another mindless fuck that doesn’t mean anything.

Fuck, Steve gets that. 

Billy is giving him something real, and so Steve responds in kind. He pulls away and flips Billy over, ignoring his confused protests and sliding back inside with slow, steady strokes. His hand falls to Billy’s neck, and he squeezes tight without breaking eye contact. Billy stutters, his face darkening with an expression Steve can’t read; but when Steve begins to talk again, a steady stream of praise falling from his lips, Billy’s expression slackens into something open and raw.

He tosses his head back on the pillow, dirty blond curls fanned around his head, and presses up into Steve’s palm. His breathing is free—long, ragged breaths drawn between moans—and Steve can’t look away from the expression in his eyes.

“You’re in control here,” Steve says, voice low and quiet. “If you want me to stop, tell me to stop.”

Billy’s brow furrows. “What the fuck?” he gasps. “Don’t talk shit.”

“I mean it,” Steve repeats. “If you want it, tell me to stop.”

The strange expression is back. It’s as if he’s about to punch Steve or kiss him or break down and cry, and Steve has no idea what it means but he knows it’s real. His cock slides deep and long. His palm against Billy’s throat is firm, unrelenting.

“Tell me to stop.”

“What?” Anger flashes across Billy’s face. His brow is still furrowed in confusion.

“If you want it, do it.”

Billy’s chest heaves, his face twisting, and then he spits out the word. “Stop.”

Steve pulls his hand away. 

“Holy—” Billy’s eyes flutter closed, his mouth going slack as he cries out. 

He’s coming, coming untouched with nothing but Steve’s dick inside him, and it’s the hottest thing Steve has ever seen. Steve drops his head forward, pumping his hips hard and fast as Billy rides out his orgasm, and then he’s following too. 

The minutes after they come down from their high are strange. The space feels different, both charged with heat and lethargic all at once. Their eyes meet, and Steve doesn’t look away. 

“They’re showing that new movie at the drive-in tonight.” The words are falling out of Steve’s mouth before he can stop them. “Back to the Future or something. Want to go?”

Billy stares at him, and Steve thinks for everything they’ve done together, this is the first time he’s seen Billy look truly shocked. For a second, it looks like Billy is going to push him aside and run, and Steve realizes just how much he doesn’t want that. Just how much he aches to take Billy to the movies.

But instead of leaving, Billy relaxes, falling even deeper back into the pillows while the corners of his mouth tick up into a smile. “You sure you want to be seen in public with me?”

The tone is casual, but the question is real. Just like Steve’s answer.

“I’m sure.”

“Then it’s a date.”

*

So, maybe he was right about one thing. It wasn’t the pain, it wasn’t how fucked up his new obsession was, it wasn’t even that Steve didn’t want him. Steve wanted him all right, wanted to give it to him long and slow and sweet.

And it turned out Billy was right. He did deserve it.   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Me: I'm gonna write some kink fic. It's been too long, time to let loose  
> Also me: sends character to the library to research the kink and spends like 1k words on prepping the character's commitment to safe sex
> 
> What can I say. The Drarry consent fest inspired me to new heights of detail when it comes to sex scenes.
> 
> Also, I didn't intend to roast Steve Harrington for not knowing the Dewey Decimal System, but I guess as a librarian that's my job.
> 
> Also also, I think the timeline is off for them to be seeing Back to the Future (July 1985) because I wanted them to be out of high school for a few months, but I really wanted them to see it haha


End file.
